Page 2 of Mother Pucker
I roll my eyes, adding another essential item to my list. This one specifically for Dylan’s detox. “I’m going to make you that oatmeal, turnip, and turmeric smoothie again. I know how much you loved it last time.”
Dylan responds with something that sounds strangely like, “ . . . loved it about as much as I love eating compost,” but the sound of the buzzer and the crowd going absolutely berserk drowns out some of her words.
The Bolts have scored another goal, and while the players glide effortlessly over the ice, my gaze snags on the defenseman with the number sixteen and the name Parker written on hisjersey. Even from where I stand, it’s clear he towers over the players, both in height and presence.
I’d seen images of him on TV, since both my late husband and our son were crazy about him, but seeing him in real life today . . . he’s like a gravitational force all on his own.
The man is well over six feet, with dark hair and golden, sun-kissed skin, despite the fact that he likely sees more ice than the sun most days. And from myincredibly unreliablerecollection of his screen image, that skin is complemented with a golden-green gaze, thick eyelashes and brows, and plump, smooth lips that may have had me involuntarily licking my own.
But again, that was from my incredibly unreliable recollection.
My eyes trail him like slutty jersey chasers, watching his swift movements and complete focus. There’s an assurance and decisiveness in the way he moves, guiding the puck with the precision of a surgeon, making me wonder if he applies the same sureness and control to everything else he does with those large hands . . . and that sculpted body.
And thinking about what he might do with his hands off the rink has me swiping my bottom lip with my tongue and clearing my throat unnecessarily. Annoyingly, I catch Beckett’s eyes and his stupid knowing smile peering my way.
I don’t know what that smug grin on his gazillionaire face is all about, but if he doesn’t drop it, I’m going to smack it right off him. I quickly drop my eyes to my phone, wishing my short hair could hide my burning ears.
I just need to get laid again.
It’s the only reason I was gawking at a man almost a decade younger than me, and envisioning what hisstickwould feel like between my–
“Holy shh!”
“Oh, no!”
A collective gasp shifts the entire atmosphere in the arena and has me lifting my head to see what I missed.
I get up on my toes to get a better glimpse, catching Beckett swearing under his breath. “Duck! That doesn’t look good.”
“What happened?” I ask, my brows furrowed as I watch Rowan Parker shuffle to stand back up on the ice. He’s limping on his skates, clearly not putting pressure on one leg as he walks over to the bench, but it’s hard to tell how hurt he is.
“Something happened when he shot to make the goal, and he fell,” Kai answers. “Didn’t you see it, Mom?”
I shake my head in answer as Beckett fills in more details. “He lost his balance somehow when he swung, but my worry is, he fu–” Beckett catches himself, knowing all the kids are hanging on to his words, “ducked up his leg.”
He takes his phone out and calls someone, likely his brother or the physician. “Hey, what’s happening? How badly hurt is he?”
Liv and I exchange a concerned glance before I peer at Kai next to me, his previously bright eyes now veiled with worry. I place my hand on his dark hair, scratching the back of his head. “He’s going to be okay, sweetheart. Don’t wor–”
“I’m bringing my wife’s best friend over to him now,” Beckett states on the phone, cutting off my words and getting a glare from me. I really hope he’s not talking about me. “Her name is Shayla Kumar, and she’s a physical therapist. We’ll have her assess him.”
“Wha–” I say with a start.
What the hell is he talking about? Has he lost his mind? Why the hell is he volunteering me? Doesn’t the NHL have their own doctors and athletic trainers?
“She’ll be there in a minute,” he decides, hanging up the phone.
“Beckett . . .” Liv says, seeming just as confused. “What the heck are you doing?”
“I just talked to the team’s physician. He’s still stitching up Sanders, and the head trainer and athletic trainers are with other players. They could use someone to help take a look at Parker.”
Beckett turns to me and I swear, if I didn’t know better, I’d say there’s a glint in his eyes.A fucking glint!What is this guy up to?
I shake my head vigorously. “I’m a physical therapist, not a physician or an orthopedist. If he’s hurt, he’ll need to get looked at by–”
“And he will,” Beckett cuts in. “But right now, for the sake of the team, the physician could use another pair of hands.”
I put my hands on my hips, recalling the all too observant smile he gave me earlier when he caught me ogling the muscle-bound stallion in skates. “Is that what the physician told you? That heneedsanother pair of hands? Because that seems highly unlikely, not to mention something that could get me into legal trouble.” I look down at Kai to ensure he isn’t paying attention, before I continue in a hushed tone, “Or is this another one of your ploys?”
